Year's End

The very end of the year can be hard for me, even more than the "holiday season". I think it is because, like most people, I look back to assess what these twelve months were all about, and most years it's hard to see any major changes in how the world is operating. If anything, the wall of conflict seems to be more impenetrable than ever. I no longer even understand the fighting impulse. Trying to function as a post-duality person in a duality-driven world doesn't, ahem, get any easier...

Last week, I heard a chipper young woman recommending ways to fight climate change in the New Year. Sort of resolution-style. I cringed. Oh dear, dear people, everything we fight gets bigger! I truly don't believe there is an exception to that. To "address" climate change, homelessness, addiction, illness, mental illness, poverty, prejudice...we can only work on ourselves. We have to look beyond generations of conflict and create unified, harmonic constructs within our own lives and let the ripples move out from there. If conflict ever worked, historically, it will do so less and less going forward. Fighting gives the impression of acting powerfully, but all it does is extend the fighting. It's a closed, hopeless circle. 

I'm actually glad that the fighting construct falls down when it comes to the weather. I mean, nothing Buffalo's citizens could have done would have stopped the blizzard last week, or led to "victory over" the storm. Nothing our government, industries, or people can do will completely "stop" hurricanes, tornados, and the extreme weather phenomena that we will all experience in the near future. The three days before Christmas were actually terrifying here in Duluth -- the temperatures were below zero, and the winds were wailing from the northwest, making for wind chill temps of -40 F and worse. For the most part, we didn't receive new snow, but the old snow was blowing around and one was constantly conscious that any moment, we could experience a power outage. Freezing to death is always an under-the-surface fear in the winter here. Thankfully, our power held, but it is only through positive action (power companies and local officials trying to work proactively) that we are spared the worst. It's not like some kind of huge screen can be built to prevent the wind from hitting us! 

I mentioned a few blogs ago that my 2023 resolution is to speak ever-more-honestly and powerfully here in this blog. To do a better job of speaking for the Goddess, I guess you could say. I have, on the best of days, only a handful of readers, and a case could be made for stopping this endeavor entirely. As I have said before, it's a consideration almost every day. But this is all I have to offer right now, my golden thread gift to the world, and I just have to hope that even if no one is reading, the energetic vibrations are birthing a little tiny bit of new life. 

 

The Gaping Hole

I guess it stands to reason that, having made the decision not to listen to Lessons and Carols from Kings on Saturday, that some more pieces would fall into place (or out of it, depending on your perspective!) 

First of all, that Christmas Eve hour-and-a-half was truly a gaping hole. I think -- although I am not sure about this -- that this was the first Christmas where I actively boycotted the service, and it was a hard, empty period of time. Over the years, I have listened to the broadcast from the darnedest places, or around the edges of driving around doing last minute shopping, or helping friends prepare Christmas meals, or -- as I've recounted here -- sitting in my car watching Lake Superior steam up and freeze over, sobbing with homesickness for England. I think a few years ago, I almost boycotted it on the issue of the all-male choir, but at the last minute chickened out and listened. If nothing else has "been" Christmas for me, this service stood firm.

But because this year, I was reacting to the Adam and Eve story (not the superficiality of who was singing the carols), it brought me to the core theological issues that have dogged me since childhood. At the age of eight, in the choir loft at St. George's, Schenectady, I wondered why God hadn't chosen to have a special daughter, or a son and a daughter. As hard as I have tried to let my objections go, or just place the religion in historical perspective, feeling left out has never fully gone away. This year, I had to be honest with myself. The Christmas story -- true, largely told through familiar carols -- makes me angry. I always try hard to walk through anger as quickly as possible, but this is big and has been simmering my whole life. I'm angry at all the references to the little boy savior, the new-born king, the son who will reign for ever and ever. Where is the daughter? 

I'm sure there aren't too many men who spend time literally identifying themselves as the messiah, but the fact is, they could if they wanted to. Or they can place themselves in the shoes of the kings, or the shepherds, or Joseph. But for women, there is a gaping hole in the story. Who can we identify with? Mary? I don't know any woman who quite "gets" the notion of the virgin birth, but whether we are single and have no children, or married with five children, it's hard to relate to her situation or condition. It is literally too unreal. It was wise men, not women, who were sent to visit the child. There may have been women among the shepherds, although it's not specified. Angels are sometimes seen as female (as a two-year old, I played an angel in a pageant) but there, again, I can't place myself in their proverbial shoes. It's the core, holy story of the religion of my upbringing, one that is supposed to bring joy, and yet there's no part for me to play. There is no place for me. From Christmas to Easter, someone who looks like me will never be the star of the show.

The only thing that I can do today is find a way to tell a story where I exist. Maybe, at least for starters, I can imagine that over Schenectady, a star was shining bright. Maybe I can imagine that heavenly beings were gathering to celebrate my birth -- and that they do that for every girl baby born on this planet!! Maybe as prosaic as the real story is, of my dad bar-hopping for hours in the middle of a winter's night, and my mom enduring a long labor in a sterile 1950's-era hospital, there were angelic beings on the scene. If you had listened carefully, some heavenly music might have been audible. 

This Christmas weekend -- amidst the impossibly strong winds and low wind chill temperatures -- was a seismic shift for me. Through decades of being single and childless, having little spending money for presents, never having a permanent home, and becoming increasingly "post-Christian", I could still at least enjoy Christmas carols. I knew all of their verses by heart, and sang with gusto. At other times of the year in the future, I suspect I'll still be able to attend choral evensong services, although it will be interesting to see how I react when I have that opportunity. But not Christmas or Easter. No matter how beautiful and glorious the music is, I think the door has closed on the major holy days. And that is a gaping hole.

Decembrrr...

Back in 2016, I wrote a post called "Brr..." with only two r's. This is definitely a three r "Decembrrr" day! The wind chills are going to be off the charts today and tomorrow, -40 or lower. This weather, for once, is affecting a large portion of the US, throwing people's holiday travel and shopping plans into turmoil, and making it literally unsafe to go out.

Yesterday, I did eventually venture out to the grocery store I'm within walking distance of, before the winds picked up. It was an adventure containing three minor miracles. I dropped one of my mittens in the store, and someone figured out it was mine and gave it back to me. Then, upon leaving the store, I realized that there was already a bus at the bus stop (with heavy bags, I need to take the bus back to my cross street). I was sure I had missed it and would have to wait 20 or 30 minutes. But, bless her heart, the driver saw me coming, recognized me (and the fact that I am a regular), and waited for me...and then, she told me rides were free because of the cold! Lastly, I walked safely down the hill, in the middle of the road. (Generally during and after storms, there is street plowing well before there is sidewalk shoveling.) I'm learning a new level of pedestrian intuition. It's reasonably safe to set foot on white (all snow). It's reasonably safe to walk on brown (where the plows have left a mixture of salt and dirt). What is unsafe, even with ice grippers on your boots, is grey or silver in color, ice covered by a fine layer of snow. 'Nuff said!

Two comments on the news coverage of this latest storm, close on the heels of another one a week ago that affected a large part of the country. First of all, at this moment in history, I would ditch that "once-in-a-generation" label! It may reassure people right this second, but we will be having more and more similar events, and it simply will become inaccurate, if it is not already.

Secondly, I still keep hearing those derogatory comments about Mother Nature, that she has it in for us, or that she is "disrupting" our holiday plans. Oh gosh, where does one start? Nature (no matter what gender you may ascribe to it, if any) is not singling out any one person, country, or area of any country. This isn't payback, or anger, or a force to be fought. Nature is simply doing what it needs to do to keep this planet reasonably livable. She has adapted and adapted and adapted, and is still doing so. There is another option for us humans at this frigid, dark time of year, and that is to stay home, stop fighting, and celebrate it with whoever is near. Take some baked goods to your neighbor, or hibernate. We can honor earth and her storms by simply being grateful for whatever warmth and safety we have. Take Mother Nature into consideration before making complex travel plans, not after the storms arrive. Nature is far more powerful than we are, and in many parts of the country, Decembrrr is easier to deal with when we adapt from the get-go, when we graciously acknowledge Nature's wisdom and sovereignty. 

It's Winter, Thankfully

...OK, I guess not officially until tomorrow. But here in Northern Minnesota, we've entered what will be a week or so of unusually bitter temperatures, at least for December. It's about 1 above zero, Fahrenheit, and won't get much warmer. Then we're in for several days of 0 degree highs, plus high winds and snow. I remember from the 1990s, how hard these multi-day stretches are. Putting aside whether you are outside or have the privilege of being indoors, your body almost goes into hibernation mode. The minute it goes above 0, you can tell, and it almost feels warm. I try not to go out for any period of time when the real temperature or windchill reach -20, but even in -30 windchills, I'll need to help shovel when we get snow Wednesday through Friday. I'll be thankful literally every minute that I am indoors!

There's another thing to be thankful for. I had a near-accident yesterday which ultimately amounted to "nothing". But you may have experienced this...a car comes wailing around a corner and almost hits you. You grab a railing just in time to prevent a fall or trip. Or these days, you are in a crowd of people and still somehow manage not to get sick from the pandemic, the flu or other ailments...and for 24 to 48 hours, you live in this strange netherworld, where part of you experienced the accident and part of you didn't. I feel such gratitude and thankfulness, and found (upon searching) that none of my sets of oracle cards have "thankfulness" or "gratitude" cards...the best I could come up with was "Protection" and "Beloved". After Christmas, I may have to search for a new deck. But I'm not wandering around in this weather. I think I have enough food for a week. 

Lastly, and this may not seem "a propos"...I am so thankful that I seem to have finally aligned with a unified, post-duality core self. It is making all the Christmas carol references to sin and salvation/being redeemed quite painful to listen to -- more so than I ever remember. I have to believe that such concepts don't exist in a Goddess-inspired paradigm. Over these next few days, I'll just have to focus on the musical melodies and harmonies (not the words!), the colors in the sky, the beauty of the fluffy new snow, and the relative silence once I turn the radio off. I'll focus on gratitude that I've made it this far. Thankfully.

The Long-forgotten Voice

This has been, even by Duluth standards, an exceptionally snowy and challenging winter week. Starting Wednesday, we've had almost nonstop snow. Actually, it started out that day -- near the lake -- as slushy rain, as temperatures remained around 32 degrees. But up the hill, even a quarter of a mile, what fell was almost all snow, and in the end the two-day snowfall was among the top ten on record -- nearly two feet. It has been impossible, heavy, cement-like snow. Radio and TV weather people were advising us older folks not to even attempt to shovel, but I had to do a little bit. Events were canceled, and for several days there was little traffic on the streets. Yesterday, walking to the supermarket, I did something I've hoped never to do, which is use a cane with an ice gripper. It helped, but I hate the visuals of it! Not that anyone noticed -- heck, everyone was struggling to walk over the huge, solid snowbanks at each corner. As we speak, it is still snowing lightly. Four or five more inches fell overnight. And as the next seven days are due to get colder and colder, we will certainly have a white Christmas.

What, exactly, does this have to do with today's title? Well, nothing, really! But this phrase came to me in my personal, hand-written journal, and I just had to use it. What I was referring to was the voice of the Goddess, the voice of the divine feminine, the voice of the land. That all along, for centuries -- underneath the roar of furnaces, the pounding of jackhammers, the loud scrape of plows and snowplows, the sometimes earsplitting noises of "manmade" progress -- there has been a quiet voice under the surface, trying to make itself heard. I've reached the point where, even when snow doesn't muffle other sounds, it is almost all that I hear. The Goddess saying, listen to me, hear what I have to say.

This may relate to another phenomenon, a metaphor that I've been thinking about. And that is the notion of a life being almost like a play on the stage. That we are all heroines/heroes of our own plays, and that over time certain people and situations walk out on stage with us, fellow "cast members" who are crucial to the drama, and yet who may eventually walk off, no longer necessary to the energy of the story. I feel like I am in Act Three, and that suddenly, I am alone on stage. Other people from earlier stages of my life have dropped away. I am listening to that long-forgotten voice, and am about to recite a soliloquy. And the finale of my play may be based on who hears the soliloquy, and how they respond. Will my final scene be solitary or in community? It remains to be seen. It seems to me that quite a few of my 65-plus friends are in a similar place, whether or not they see it that way. Many of us are out on a limb or in a place of reckoning because of deaths of parents, illnesses of self, spouses or other family, retirement, the pandemic, and other life role changes. The stage is ours, and it is a vulnerable place.

I'm grateful that I can hear the long-forgotten voice. In 2023, may I release my tendency to be too tactful or "diplomatic", while retaining beauty of expression. These seven years blogging have been practice; if I have held anything back, Goddess give me the courage to speak ever more powerfully, directly, and lovingly. 

Goddess Words 14: Passion

First of all, this appears to be my 700th post. Goodness. Over seven years, I have averaged around eight posts per month, although it is skewed somewhat because during the height of COVID I didn't write at all, not owning a computer at that time, and the library being closed. I am immensely proud of this achievement, and of the quality of most of my writing over time. I am thankful to those who either sporadically or regularly drop by and have a read. I rarely skim the surface of life, so I know my deep thoughts are not for everyone, and neither is my writing! Anyway, thanks to all of you who are literally part of my path.

It's time I return to my list of Goddess words. I hadn't forgotten about it, but somehow the dark of winter has brought on other topics. Over the last week, I have "blindly" picked my "Wild Woman" oracle card three or four times, despite much shuffling and cutting of the deck, so clearly that aspect of the Goddess is trying to get my attention! Interestingly enough, the word "wild" (or "wilderness" or "wildness") didn't show up on my original list. I'll probably include it later on, but today I think I'll look at passion, which is at the top of the list.

This is another one of those words that has a number of meanings, from strong emotions (both positive and negative), to sexual expression, to the last hours in the life of Jesus. As always, I won't try to cover all the bases. 

My oracle card depicted a wild woman with long shimmering hair, caught perhaps in mid-dance, wearing brilliant colors and possibly tattoos...it's hard to see for sure because she is in motion. Anyway, a wild woman or passionate woman is probably the polar opposite of the kind of woman I was brought up to be. Indeed, even today, people who know me would be hard-pressed to describe me in those terms, except that I have lived "unconventionally". Someone who loves the controlled sound and choreography of a choral evensong service and who has little interest in roaming in the out of doors might be seen as extremely civilized and unexpressive. And because sex hasn't played a very big role in my life, I'm hesitant to talk about passion in that context, although I know I am capable of it.

And, of course, in the construct all of us grew up in, women have been largely consigned to one or the other polar opposite: virginal, pure, and holy, or a s___. I cannot even write the word. To profess to having a passion for anything, as a woman, can still be quite suspect. Indeed, I think one of my biggest mistakes over the years was referring to my "passion for English church music". It suggests something uncontrolled, inappropriate, possibly even dirty, and I suspect it terrified the very people I was trying to connect with. Passion doesn't have a "stiff upper lip", let's put it that way.

And yet, looking at my Goddess list, a good fifth of the words on it have meanings that, like passion, can be seen as sexual, or at least down-to-earth in a way that might put off some people, and inappropriately titillate others. There is still so little room in our society for the earthy, the passionate, the overtly feminine. And yet so many basic creative acts are earthy: lovemaking, sculpture, oil painting, singing, planting seeds, baking, building stone walls, blowing glass. It has only been with the invention of the computer and everything that has come from that that we have "created" such non-physical, virtual lifeforms. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for the high-tech stems from my need for something physical to hold onto...

There is a wild, passionate woman within me, and perhaps in you, too. When passion is twinned with love, I suspect it can move easily through all obstacles. That is probably why we women have been discouraged at every turn from allowing our genuine passions to flow. When it is dammed up, however, we get sick or depressed...I'm going to try to find something uncharacteristically passionate to do today, as gratitude for this vibrant life energy that ties us to the stars! And I'll report on it in my next post.

 

A Blessed Mystery

As sort of a tie-in to my previous post, many people I know agonize over what greeting to use at this time of year. "Merry Christmas" may have been appropriate in a less diverse world. But I basically stopped saying it forty years ago, when I first moved to New York City's Upper West Side. "Happy" Passover or Solstice or Kwanzaa cannot really be said unless you know that someone celebrates the holiday. "Happy Holidays" and "Seasons Greetings", preferable in being more all-inclusive, are just so terribly bland. I mean, they sound, and are, superficial and greeting card-y. The fact is, December (at least in the northern hemisphere) is a "deep" month on so many levels. There is deep darkness, often deep snow. For many people it is a deeply depressing month, or one that triggers hard memories. People miss lost friends and loved ones, and pandemic uncertainty continues to drag us down. And if the calendar year hasn't lived up to expectations, December may be a month of reckoning. Perhaps part of the problem is that wishing people "merry" or "happy" in the depths of winter just may be too jarring or inappropriate, unless you have some sense of what someone is experiencing in their life.

The other day, an alternative possibility came to me, and I'll throw it out there. If December is nothing else, it is a time of mystery. It is a time of year that may encourage introspection even in people not usually prone to it. For someone like me, whose middle name should be "introspection", this time of year is like a deep velvet blue bowl; I want to sink into it, then look at the stars above, and just wonder; What is life all about? Who are we? Are we alone in the Universe? How did Life start? Where are we headed? Will "the light" eventually come back?

Even the bare bones outline of the Christmas story has meaning for me, if I get away from theology and focus on a solitary couple traveling under a starry sky, finding a warm barn, giving birth in the night, and sages traveling, themselves, under the stars, to visit the child. Angelic choirs, simple shepherds...Did these things really happen? It is a mystery, but a beautiful and blessed one. Other traditions' December celebrations weave in and out of mystery too...I was thinking of possibilities like, "A Blessed Mystery to You",  or "May You have a Beautiful Season of Mystery". Most of the year, it is natural to try to find answers; maybe this is the one season when we can live more comfortably in the questions, waiting for answers to come in the new year. Maybe this is the time when it is OK to say, "I don't know the answers, it's all a mystery." A Blessed Mystery to you all.

Christmas Music

Christmas music becomes a stickier wicket with every passing year. When you have a master's degree in historical musicology (Early Christian Chant), and a passion for English church music, people assume that you must be a Christian, or at least that you have made your peace with the theology behind most of this music. But I haven't. Although the lyrics to most Christmas carols are a little more palatable in a cathedral setting (than, say, at the mall), the fact is, I now almost literally cringe at the mention of the "newborn king" and "the savior reigning" and so forth. I don't believe in saviors, and it's increasingly painful to move back into a male, patriarchal image of God. Years ago, I wrote an essay where I basically said, until people around the world can at least imagine ringing bells and singing carols to welcome the birth of a divine female figure, our world will remain hopelessly out of balance. The essay remains unpublished...

And this year, I may do something I never thought I would do -- skip the live service of "Lessons and Carols from King's". I love the sound of the men and boys' choir at King's Chapel, and since other prominent choir programs now include girls and women, I can live with this choir remaining all-male. In recent annual services, women have been more frequently chosen to read the lessons, and music by women composers has been featured. So, that isn't my problem. My problem is getting over the early hurdle of listening to a choirboy read the first lesson, about Adam and Eve in the Garden. I've always found this reading extremely troubling, rightly or wrongly interpreting that I, as a woman, am being blamed for humanity's downfall. That a male savior is only necessary because of how sinful I am. It's overly simplistic, but that's how it feels to hear that reading. And hearing it read by a young boy makes it even harder. For a few years, I've considered writing to the powers-that-be at King's, to beg them to find a new first lesson. Yet I know that in a sense, the arc of the lessons in the service does what it purports to do: to present, theologically, what led up to the birth of Jesus, and how Christians came to see him as the savior. I assume that this reading needs to be there for the whole wider story to make sense -- which is even more depressing. So, this year, I think the radio will stay off on Christmas Eve morning. 

But I have kept it on a lot recently; it's the only time of the year when classical radio stations play a lot of choral music, and this year, I am hearing a lot of "traditional" carols sung in new musical settings. There was a version of "Once in Royal David's City", played by cellos in, I think, parallel open fourths. A very intriguing, unusual sound. There was also an amazing, almost surreal version of "The Huron Carol"...composers and arrangers are doing interesting things with atonality, harmonization, and instrument choices (and the texture, tempo and mood of these songs), catching you a little off-guard. It seems appropriate in this unsettled "post"-pandemic time...I know I am not the only woman way out in the post-Christian wilderness -- such reboots come closer to reflecting the place I'm at. 

A Cold Wind...

I have to assume that there isn't a good city for being homeless on the streets in the northern tier of U.S. states; surely, Duluth must be one of the hardest. It is frigid here most of the winter (and winter started earlier this year than, say, last year). Today's high will be about 10 above zero Fahrenheit, with a wind chill well below zero. The season can last fully six or seven months, with brutal winds, steep hills, a freezing lake, and a smaller infrastructure than bigger cities like Minneapolis, Chicago, Green Bay, etc. While I am essentially homeless (in the sense of never having had a permanent home, and not living in the country that feels like home), I currently have a roof over my head, for which I am profoundly thankful. Most days, however, I use the bus system, and it appears to me, from being on the buses and changing buses at the Transit Center, that this is going to be a particularly hard winter for many people here. The situation elicits a complicated set of feelings...It's hard for me to feel spontaneous love for strangers under the best of circumstances, and I don't seem to be able to go down the road of "feeling sorry for" people carrying all their belongings with them. Perhaps it is a casualty of my family background, or of it being too close to my own reality...yet I definitely don't blame them or feel repelled. I'm only inches away from where they are, even if for somewhat different superficial reasons. So the level on which I can deal with it at the moment is my old standby, my intellect. What all of us have in common is not having been able to function within America's "system". In that way, I feel in complete community with the homeless. Perhaps in time I will grow, spiritually, into a fuller, warmer, more engaged sense of connection. And, of course, ultimately "they" are not "them", they are me. They are all of us.

Actually, the most traumatizing part of a bus ride is looking out the window. It's looking at the ways in which, post-pandemic (if indeed we are "post"-pandemic), our city is trying to do what the U.S. always does, push forward, grow, profit, expand. There's a neighborhood in west Duluth that is rapidly moving from stalled and downmarket to trendy and gentrified. To whatever extent such tony shops and eateries used to feel comfortable for me (during my Time Inc. days, perhaps), they are mostly out of my price range now, and, certainly, out of many peoples' price range. Up near the mall, it's the construction of ever more big box stores and their neighboring coffee shops, auto dealerships, and franchises representing all sorts of national brands. (Many of them cannot be reached by bus, or, once dropped off, you have a long and potentially unsafe walk.) And taking the bus east from the transit hub takes you next to a hospital's huge new expansion -- two buildings that are, from what I can see, almost completely encased in glass. What is the wisdom of this design decision in a city with such blustery winds and frigid outside temperatures much of the year? It is imposing and beautiful in its own way, but for someone who has largely lived without health insurance or health care, it's like something from another planet. The extremes of what I see over the course of a half an hour can be almost unbearable. These economic steps forward leave me spiritually as cold as the wind.

I guess I just don't understand. Are those of us at the lower end of the spectrum expected to see these wonders and want to be part of it all? If that's the case, it has never worked for me. With every passing year, I feel less of a stake in our culture's values, and more alienated. I try to intuit where the Goddess is in this picture, and I see Her in the lake itself, in the eagles and hawks floating on the strong winds, in the beautiful people serving the poor, and in the touching gestures you happen to see and hear, like two homeless men greeting each other with a big bear hug, or hearing the tail end of a cell phone conversation where someone says, "I love you." Sometimes I envy my friends who own cars and are somewhat insulated from what's happening on the streets, but these unexpected, beautifully poignant moments help to tip the scale back to the center.

The Flip Side...

...to yesterday's topic...

In the midst of having had some genuinely bad dreams recently, I have had some startling, positive moments.

I've already mentioned having found that I am far more self-accepting, even to the point of looking in the mirror and being happy with what I see. This in itself is nearly miraculous.

The second piece of this, I've been almost afraid to mention because it is so fragile and new. But if this blog is to be an accurate record of someone's spiritual journey (which, come to think of it, is what I am attempting!), then I need to say it. I have started to think about England in an entirely positive way. 

Now you might think, this woman has had a "thing" for England since about the age of four, how on earth could thinking about the place have been so problematical? (I'm talking, of course, only about my relationship to the country, not external events or situations there.) It's been such a perfect storm interweaving the confusing messages from family and society about the value of things I love, women and girls not traditionally being part of the cathedral choral tradition, not having ever earned enough money or had enough career success to make a permanent move possible, and inner bugaboos about not being worthy of experiencing joy, recognition, a sense of home, financial security, etc...Thinking about England has almost always brought on a mild sense of depression, hopelessness, homesickness, and a bittersweet longing/kick in the stomach. Those books about England on my shelf, which I spoke of the other week, were at times a reproach. And, I'm sure, deep down I was angry with myself and "whatever Gods there be" that I couldn't orchestrate better solutions.

In this context, imagine how shocking it is to find myself actually smiling when I think of England, feeling a warm glow, and a sense of "how privileged I have been to love such a place". To feel pleasure, then wait and wait for the usual kick in the stomach, only for it not to happen. To grin from ear to ear with happiness. Now it helps that I have re-discovered "Antiques Road Trip", that (let's face it!) rather zany English TV show featuring antiques experts going to antique shops all over the country. I love this show. And I get to see places I know as well as places I don't, to see beautiful and unusual works of art and crafts, and to laugh along with their silliness. At the end of an episode, I'm not bitter or homesick, just happy. This is not solving world hunger, but I believe happiness energy is so rare, you have to notice it and cultivate it! That I can do it without trying to plot and plan my next trip is remarkable. Truly remarkable.

What has changed? I think finally coming more fully home to myself. Not so much is "missing", so I can embrace what I love without waiting for the undercutting downside.  I guess it is worth it to endure some nightmares if I'm magically moving forward in other ways.

 

Dreaming

I mentioned a few months ago that I had had an unusually violent dream, of being in the presence of a bombing. Since then, I definitely seem to have eased out of the kinds of dreams I had for years (frustrating ones about trying unsuccessfully to reach a goal or place), and am remembering ones that are almost like bad true crime shows. The other night, I dreamt that I was in some very desolate corner of the U.S., in what was essentially a ghost town. However, I must have found an inn or bed and breakfast, and was walking alone in the huge rectangular back yard. There was a single tree in the center of the yard, and to my surprise, I saw that two young men (age 16 or 18) were climbing the tree and managed to disappear out of sight. My first thought was, kind of, "Isn't that charming? I didn't know that kids climbed trees anymore!" However, with the next step I realized that there was a piece of paper on the ground in front of me. I picked it up, and it was a modern "Wanted" poster: two young men, accused of murder, were on the loose, "armed and dangerous". It didn't take more than two seconds to realize, it was the two men in the tree. And to realize that they had seen me, they knew I had seen them, and that they had seen me read the poster about them. I nonchalantly dropped the paper, and turned around and headed back to the house, knowing that I was probably about to be killed. That's when I woke up. I wasn't afraid, just kind of, oh, this is how it will end, whether immediately or whether they will follow me around until they kill me later.

What is so frustrating is, here I am, someone who has arguably focused on spiritual growth for an entire lifetime. Considering everything, I am pretty centered and fearless. I "consume" relatively little violence in entertainment or in life. Yet clearly the violence in our culture is beginning to even get under my skin! It's like a constant level of trauma, leading to a certain fatalism. Why on earth do we live like this? 

This is the kind of dream I'd like to have: I'm walking up a grassy green hill to a verdant "tree of life". In front of the tree is a beautiful angel, who gives me a lovely message or instruction about life!! Believe me, the minute I have that kind of dream, I'll let you know!

Thanks

Yesterday, as part of a Thanksgiving ritual, I read a poem to a friend; David Whyte's "Everything is Waiting for You", the wonderful piece about the lively (and living) presence of everything around us, the "conversation" going on (if we are willing to take part!) when the tea kettle sings, and the window presents an opportunity for freedom, and so forth. It is a gentle feeling of thanks, kind of "where I am at in my journey is OK, and everything around me wants to help me". To add to the feeling of warmth, it is literally warm after two weeks well below normal, so in 34 degree air, the six inches of snow that recently fell has started to disappear. 

On Black Friday, I generally avoid all kinds of shopping. In a lifetime of rather deliberately standing back from the whole consumerist thing, it is a day when I have tended to be particularly doctrinaire. And yet, today I don't feel quite that rock solid about it. There is nothing I need, I don't particularly have the money to spend, and I don't particularly want to be in crowds. But the duality/conflict piece of it ("it is so stupid and I'm fighting back by not participating") has softened. I just simply don't have to take part. I think we are past the point where human effort could mitigate the coming changes, so right now, it's easier to just send an energy of acceptance out there, to hope that people stay safe and learn the life lessons they need from the day. And not push back so much. Just let everything be what it is. 

The sun rose a vivid orange-red, way to the south, and because the trees are virtually leafless, the fiery reflection was visible in the lake, blindingly so. Winter solstice isn't far away...soon the sunrise will start heading east across the lake again. This early morning sight is today's "gift" -- and I didn't have to spend a penny. To GUS (God/Goddess/Universe/Source) -- thanks! Thanks, thanks, thanks.

Books

When I first started this blog back in 2015, all my books were in boxes, and had been for about five years. Most of them remained in boxes (although they were shuffled around a few times) until last year around this time. I am not in a permanent home and neither are my books, but I am convinced that having them open to view -- and to grab and re-read -- has been a crucial factor in finally reaching place of some peace with myself. Right now, I am re-reading The Meaning of Mary Magdalen by Cynthia Bourgeault (2010). It is so fascinating how you crack open an older book and see page after page of underlinings and marginal comments -- proof positive that you read it many years ago, but it still ends up feeling like you are reading it for the first time. As a reader and a person, you have changed.

I actually have at least six books about (or in part about) Mary Magdalene. Perhaps two dozen books about England (including English Country Churches by Derry Brabbs, the Cathedrals of England by Alec Clifton-Taylor, Literary England by David E. Scherman and Richard Wilcox, plus offbeat ones like A Guide to Glastonbury's Temple of the Stars by K.E. Maltwood, The Queen's Clothes by Anne Edwards, and a 1989 book about the crop circle phenomenon). Feminist classics: Mary Daly's Beyond God the Father, Doris Lessing's The Marriages between Zones Three, Four and Five. My church music-related books include the 1940 Episcopal Hymnal, books about Herbert Howells, The Oxford Book of Tudor Anthems, and The Music of the English Church by Kenneth R. Long. I have books on the Tarot and other oracle cards, metaphysics, and books about women's lives, creativity, power and spirituality (Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women, Art and Society by Whitney Chadwick, all three of Sharon Blackie's books, and The Moon and the Virgin by Nor Hall). In terms of "light" reading? Two dozen old, battered copies of Mary Balogh regency romances (what can I say? They are about England and love!) and maybe ten of Peter Tremayne's Sister Fidelma mysteries, set in 7th century Ireland.

Taken together, almost 2/3 of my books are "about" "The British Isles", or I have read them trying to illuminate my passion for the place that feels like my home. 

When you come from a family context of narcissism, and self-effacement took on too strong a hold, it is excruciatingly hard to go through the process I have gone through, gradually finding and embracing what makes you tick. Your fear of falling over the edge into that black hole is acute. And yet, there is no way to make a significant contribution to the world if you don't know who you are! I can finally look at my bookshelf without cringing with embarrassment at how strange I am. The books finally feel unified at some core level. So do I. 

Just as I was writing this essay, my local classical radio station played Ralph Vaughan Williams's "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis", which cuts through hundreds of books' worth of words like a warm knife through butter. If I were to disappear -- "poof" -- off the face of the earth tomorrow, my books and that one piece of music would be all anyone needed to know. My preference would be to live another twenty or thirty years after finding a way to more effectively use what people nowadays call "my superpowers"! I am ready to go further.

STEM

I believe I mentioned this years ago -- I headed into "junior high" quite a whiz in science. In seventh grade, I was pushed ahead in most of my courses, and took Chemistry, which was a cinch. My final exam grade was something like 110. But the following year, Biology became a whole different story. My private school had hired a science teacher from Indonesia, and there was nothing wrong with that; he was undoubtedly a good scientist and teacher. However, his first language was not English, and none of us could understand him! Literally, not a word. Biology is so word- and concept-based that this was disastrous. I did what was common at the time for teenage girls; I had a little hissy fit and declared that from thenceforth, I would focus on the arts and literature, not science or math. I'm sure that for me, that was what was meant to happen in this lifetime, but still, it is too bad.

So, on principal, I am glad that girls are now encouraged to move through that 11- or 12-year-old hump, and stick with the sciences. I'm interested in the ads and public service announcements that encourage girls in "STEM", the Saturday morning educational shows featuring young women pursuing science, technology, engineering and mathematics careers, and the prevalence of women experts on public television's science shows. 

Do I have reservations? Yes. Foremost among them is my concern that these disciplines are very heavily informed by dualistic thinking and conflict. And while this doesn't guarantee that a scholar's research might eventually lead to the actual creation of weapons, that outcome (and new developments that harm the environment even further) are all-too-possible when technology way outpaces spiritual growth. As ever, we are putting the cart before the horse. Plus, I think "how the universe works" will be seen very differently -- and possibly work very differently -- within the next few decades.

It would be so lovely if women were encouraged to be whatever it is that they are truly meant to be, without any reference to the needs of corporations or institutions. I get it -- girls hardly wish to end up in my boat, having gifts and strengths that don't pay the bills. Their parents probably find this kind of outcome even less palatable. But that is the weakness of this dying paradigm, not of the young people who are musicians, artists, dancers, poets, or mystics at heart. As we move further into the emerging new age, these arts and spirituality "careers" will be more highly respected, and better supported. (Whether there will be any such thing as money is another story...! I don't believe it will be necessary once love becomes the currency.)

I have this hunch that the occupations women have had to fight the hardest to enter are the very ones that are still too one-sided to survive the coming changes. If I had a daughter (and sadly, I don't), I would encourage her to try to align with her passion, whatever it is. But I'd also want to help her stay afloat, hard when you can barely do it yourself! If she rejected my path because engineering thrilled her, I would be happy. But if she and I were able to work together in attempting to model/construct a more Goddess-centered world, that would be even better. Doing the impossible together always beats doing it alone!

I have images of educational TV programs chronicling the life and studio time of young oil painters, the hours of practice of young musicians, the hours of silence, reading, and contemplation of budding mystics...

Goddess Words 13: Music

It is interesting that it took until word number 13 to focus on "music". Music is at the heart of me, I know, and possibly that's why I hesitated. It's so big.  And I see it at the heart of the Goddess, the swirling creative light and love energy encompassing everything and moving ever-outwards. I mean, that energy must have a sound too.

So by "music", I don't just mean my beloved genre of the choral evensong tradition, and the exquisite sounds of a cappella vocal groups like The Tallis Scholars and Voces 8. That is the music that zings straight to my heart. Undoubtedly you have a form of music that does the same for you. And I don't just limit the word to the "Western" canon, the music that one is likely to hear on local classical music radio stations or at symphony concerts. That may have been the focus in all my musical education and degree courses half a century ago; at the time, there was little acknowledgement of the countless other music traditions worldwide. (I hope students today are receiving a more well-rounded picture, and developing a more flexible ear than I did!) There is music, too, in all our "manmade" constructs, highway noise, construction sounds, the horns of the great ships communicating with the lift bridge, airplanes overhead, and even the sounds of bottles and cans being dumped into a dump truck.

In the context of Mother Nature, there is music everywhere, in webs of life hundreds of miles from the nearest radio station or concert hall. Hundreds of miles from the nearest humans, humming on their way to work or listening to contemporary music in the car or by headphone. It isn't much of a stretch to hear music in the wind, in the waves hitting the lakeshore, in the calls of birds or coyotes, in a swarm of bees or the click of deer hooves on the sidewalk or pebbles. The bigger stretch -- but I believe it is there -- is hearing the music of the stones, the birch bark, the moss, the desert floor, the flower in the garden. On this snowy early winter day in northern Minnesota, surely there is music in the snowflake as it floats down, lands, and merges with other flakes or, perhaps, melts. 

But on this same day when the world population evidently topped 8 billion (Lordy), I am also interested in the ways in which every single one of us is essentially a musical instrument. Our cells are singing, the blood surging through our bodies is singing, and our moods are sending out a song to the people around us and the Universe. Are we singing a song that is beautiful and harmonic, or dissonant and painful? Is ours an instrument making an effort to blend in with other instruments, or a beautiful soloist, or are we taking our instrument and bashing all the other members of the orchestra on their heads? It comes back to what I wrote about the other week, sensitivity. Can we hear our own music? Can we hear the music of our souls, the music that earth transmits out into space, the creative song of the Goddess? When we cannot, or when trying to meditate isn't really working, a few moments of silence just listening may help. You will hear music. There is music everywhere. 

Love Your Mother

As I have probably mentioned before, I wasn't a hippie "back in the day". I was a little bit too young (12 in 1968). I was a little bit too serious and academic. I wasn't in a family or academic setting that might have promoted it (having gone to a private girls' school and had to wear a uniform). I focused on English church music and getting good grades, basically. No pot, no drugs, no Woodstock, no anti-war marches, nothing.

So I never carried a sign declaring, "Love Your Mother," or had that bumper sticker on my car. Until I wrote the post the other day, I'm not sure the phrase ever broke through my consciousness. But after I finished writing, it hit me. That is the crux of our environmental impasse. For thousands of years, few of our major religious, economic or social constructs have been based on reverence for women or the earth. And now we are paying the price, as it were. 

I honor the fact that internationally, there are efforts being made to address climate chaos. I hope that there is at least some success in mitigating the thoughtless damage we have done, and helping people to adapt to the coming extremes of weather and temperature. But until most of the world's most powerful people can stand up publicly and say, "Mother Nature's needs are at the top of my list of priorities," it's hard to see how these steps will work. And we seemingly powerless people aren't off the hook. At this moment in history, we also need to put Her needs ahead of our own convenience or comfort, and stand up and say, "I Love My Mother. I Love Mother Earth." I'm going to try to say it daily, the minute I wake up and pull aside the curtain and see light on the horizon. It will be interesting to see if it helps me to make new kinds of life decisions, small and large. 

Beyond the Horizon

Back in the 1990's, when I first lived in Duluth and was inspired by my view of Lake Superior, I tried to formulate a life philosophy based on the idea that the horizon line place where two "opposites" meet (say, lake and sky) is the most vivid and full of life. That one plane was not meant to fight the other -- and win. Both planes/opposites were meant to be in the picture, and to learn to interact vibrantly, not violently. I continue to like this concept, although I guess in the intervening 25 years or so, I have evolved into a post-duality "place" that simply emerges out of duality, a "place" more informed only by values of love, beauty, warmth and peace -- qualities that in the present world are considered "feminine". No violence is necessary; it seems to me that this is simply the direction we are headed in. It is evolution out of where we are, not a revolution. We will simply grow out of conflict, hatred, and pain as we enter the age of Aquarius. 

But being in this "place" continues to be a real challenge, especially when watching world and national events unfold, or trying to participate. (Spoiler alert, as ever, I read and study relatively little about these events, because my system can't seem to handle even that much conflict!) No matter what happens at the UN meeting on climate change, the focus is undoubtedly (as it is almost everywhere it is mentioned) on "fighting" the phenomenon. Yet fighting any phenomenon only creates more of the phenomenon. And when you see climate change as at least partly Mother Nature's effort to rebalance earth's energies, "fighting climate change" feels like another form of fighting the feminine. Now, ignoring climate change and moving full steam ahead, continuing to pollute the earth, cannot work either. Is there a path forward? The only one I can see is to lovingly embrace the fact that enormous changes are coming, and to release all emotional attachment to institutions and solutions that are not, themselves, based in love. Addressing climate change (as a phase we must walk through) will only "work" in a context of love, not a context of fear or profit or conserving/fixing the status quo.

It was also surreal listening to what American voters were concerned about going into the elections -- high prices, education, lack of affordable housing, violence, etc. I guess it is too scary to look further down the road, beyond the horizon. Yet many of these issues may fade into insignificance when climate changes become even more acute. As I headed to the polls, if a reporter with a microphone had asked me what my greatest concern is at this moment, I would have said something like, "The fact that we aren't looking at the bigger picture.The fact that we are not looking beyond the horizon." That is the blessing -- and curse! -- of being a mystic! 

 

Still Thinking about Nonviolence

I wrote about nonviolence back in July, and every day since then, I have continued to think about the topic...evidently, many people are trying to come up with better words and processes for addressing society's problems, ones not directly referencing violence. That's encouraging! I've tried a few possible options on for size, such as "loving action/communication". 

There are stumbling blocks. The first is, coming from my background, I am supersensitive about only wanting to use words like "love" when I really, really love something or someone. Gosh, I refer to love all the time, and yet I also know that there is no word more twisted up in knots in this world. There is no word more misused by people who are completely incapable of love. (It's no accident that in George Orwell's 1984, the Big Brother regime's Ministry of Love is in place to torture people.) The most tragic moment of my life came about two years before my father's death; after nearly 60 years of pouring love, support, and spiritual effort into the man, I had to turn away. I could no longer act or communicate lovingly with him, because all my energies had disappeared down a black hole. I was no closer to genuinely connecting with him than I had been 20, 30, 40 or 50 years before. And assuming that a lot of the people in this world doing the most vile things have a lot in common with my father, it's likely that my efforts at loving communication would similarly go nowhere with them, and might end up making me feel insincere or passive-aggressive at best, infuriated at worst.

Another big block for me is this whole issue of constantly reacting rather than acting. Constantly in a place of, if person A is doing such-and-such, I need to react/push back/neutralize their action. Needing to be nonviolent because someone else has chosen to be violent. As a woman, it's bad enough that most of my life has been dictated by masculine principles that I didn't understand and couldn't operate within. It has taken 66 years for who I really am to emerge from under the rocks...if my role going forward were to continue to be only "responding and reacting", I don't think I could go on. What does it feel like to be the primary actor? The star of the show? To actively embody principles of love, beauty, joy, truth, acceptance, etc.? To have agency and power? This effort -- in the world as it is -- is incredibly hard and exhausting. (And it is absolutely not the dreaded "doing nothing", even when there are painfully few positive outcomes, and others may not see or understand what you are doing.)

I guess what it boils down to is, everything is a stage in our human spiritual journey. Nonviolence is far better than violence. Grappling with the limitations of the term "nonviolence" is another step forward. And once enough people individually create lives aligned with Love, and gather together to create institutions aligned with Love, there will be less and less violence to react to. The knee-jerk instinct to react against will start to fade away.

 

"For All the Saints"

At this All Hallows/All Saints/All Souls time, I cannot help but remember the rousing, wonderful hymn to the music of Vaughan Williams, "For All the Saints". Back when I was in the girls' choir at St. George's, Schenectady, we got a morning off from school to sing the All Saints Day service; strange that it was our choir (not the men and boys) who got to sing these odd mid-week services and play hooky. I won't go too far down that road (!)...but this morning just for fun, I just opened my 1940 hymnal to look at the words to hymn 126. I guess I had forgotten (or was numb to, as in so many other areas) just how martial this hymn is. People were considered saints had fought "the well-fought fight". Saints were "soldiers, faithful, true and bold", who earned rest at the end of their long life of strife. They confessed the name of Jesus, even at the risk, presumably, of death. At the end of it all, they won "the victor's crown of gold".

Ugh.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

As ever, I find myself re-framing, re-articulating everything. What, for me, is "sainthood" in my post-Christian, Goddess-oriented meadow beyond these warlike structures? Here are just some off-the-top-of-the-head thoughts. First of all, I wouldn't make such a distinction between the three days and kinds of energy. Every soul who has some connection to divine love and acts out of that place is a saint in my book. Every woman or man who "does no harm", who adds beauty, honesty, love, harmony and truth to the world without fighting others, is a saint...and honoring the mystical, eerie, other-worldly, mysterious aspect of living such a life is great too, especially on the cusp of winter. I'm not a fan of how dark, menacing, and consumerist modern Halloween can be; on Halloween, I prefer to focus more on joyous mystery, earth energies, and our connection to the divine. 

This year, it is hard to feel a sense of the onrush of cold, dark winter, because Duluth is freakishly warm. We've had several weeks of clear, dry, nearly hot weather, no doubt adding to the challenging low water levels further south on the Mississippi. It's practice living in paradox, when the sun is low, the day starts late and ends early, and the leaves have almost all dropped from the trees but the air is warm and the lake is calm. Something is "wrong with this picture" -- or is it? Nature is responding as she must to all the environmental challenges around the world...if I can give her only one gift today, it is thanks for the break from Duluth's norm, and enjoyment of what is. And thanks for all those whose lives illustrate a pure, non-conflict-driven, love.

From Oversensitivity to Ultrasensitivity

I've been thinking about the gifts and challenges of being "too sensitive". Most of the men, and some of the women, I have crossed paths with over the years have found my sensitivity exasperating. To the extent to which it often manifested in being sensitive to personal slights, or responding poorly to comments that people said were jokes (but didn't sound like jokes to me) -- or whatever -- I agree that sensitivity had its downside, for me and for relating to the people around me. On the plus side, it made it possible for me to sing on key, to sightread challenging choral music, to harmonize with music I had never heard before, to paint realistic paintings of fruit and do color mixing in oils. It has made it possible for me to express myself in words in ways that many people cannot. So at 66, on balance, I would never want to be less sensitive, or medicated "against" this aspect of my makeup.

Still, it is becoming clear to me that in this 2022 rebirth time, my sensitivity to assaults on the divine feminine has increased significantly. Yesterday was a good illustration of this.

Sometimes I take the city bus "up to the mall" area. (It is literally an uphill battle here!) When you don't own a car, every week or two you have to take the bus out to one of the more outlying areas just to get a change of scenery. You need to escape the limiting confines of downtown. However, I don't like malls and retail strips; ultimately, I just don't find them beautiful. 

I went into one of the enormous supermarkets, just for a few things, and almost swooned. (By definition, that Victorian-sounding condition can be brought on by positive or negative situations, but for me it almost always occurs when I am negatively overwhelmed.) It hit as I walked through the bakery aisle. There must have been many hundreds of loaves of bread (commercial, not store-baked) on the shelf. It was just too much to think about. I mean, is all this bread being sold and eaten? Is the remainder getting to the local food shelf? Does it seriously only cost around $4.00 to make, package, and ship each of these loaves? Where do all the plastic container bags end up? From the moment these thoughts hit me, I was completely freaked out. Each aisle was stuffed to the gills with thousands of bottles of soda, hundreds upon hundreds of cake mixes and cans of tuna and bottles of condiments. The amount of plastic waste generated by this one store, alone, is almost unthinkable, even if some waste is eventually recycled. Add to that the amount of food that must have to be discarded, other packaging, and artificial sweeteners, scents, and flavorings...I could barely breathe once I left the store. Nothing in the place seemed to reflect Nature, the Goddess. Her truly natural ingredients have been twisted into so many knots, I doubt She can recognize them.

Next door, an old big box store has closed and a new one has taken its place. The redecoration is quite swank, and I have no doubt that the home furnishings within are of good quality. But I will never go in there, simply because when you have no home, you don't have a place to furnish. Even if I turned on a dime tomorrow and started to believe in our paradigm, and got full-time work in some modestly lucrative milieu, the fact is that at this late date, I still could never afford a house in this lifetime. It is painful simply to look at some of these places, much less to go in them, they are so far out of reach.

Lastly, a small stretch of the strip, which I swear has been for sale since back in the 1990's when I first lived here, seems finally to have been sold. Half a dozen bulldozers, graders, and other huge pieces of equipment were completely changing the 2 or 3 acres of landscape. I literally let out a little cry; I could feel the pain of the earth being dug into and altered without Nature's permission. It felt like an attack on my own body. 

It's like, the numbness of over six decades of living in this consumerist culture has finally worn off. I feel the pain, the inequity, the inherent conflict of it all, and as hard as it is, I don't want to return to numbness. For me, it's not about fighting these trends or self-medicating. It's about walking through and understanding my ultrasensitivity in this area, writing honestly, and aligning ever more with the divine feminine. I will never again call it "oversensitivity", because that's a negative judgment. "Ultrasensitivity" simply means, I have sensitivity in abundance for some good reason. It is one of my divine gifts, not a curse. 

"It's Mine"

As I listened to the news on the radio this morning, I couldn't help but think about how many of the items were related to man's tendency to claim things as "mine". Individual men, men in leadership positions, governments, corporations, countries. Our entire economic system is based on personal ownership, which can lead to almost constant conflict. I'm reaching the point where I can dimly hear, under the surface of a news report, a childish spat in the schoolyard: "It's mine." "No, it's not, it's mine." "No, it's mine"...

And it's not completely and exclusively men. We women try to claim ownership of everything from material possessions to our own bodies, only to this day, it's not a given that we will be successful. We only have a short history in a limited number of countries of having rights to any kind of ownership or independent action or thought, much less successful careers, respect, and opportunities for leadership. My personal inability to function in an ownership construct is pretty spectacular, but I suppose you could say my priority was always to "own" myself. If it took 66 years and resulted in owning precious little else, I'm strangely OK with that.

The schoolyard spats seem even more surreal when placed in the context of classic photographs of earth from outer space, where all our artificial lines and boundaries are nonexistent. These lines are completely imaginary, when you come right down to it. And in the end, even Mother Earth's "ownership" of this planet (and all through the galaxy and beyond) isn't what we humans consider ownership. It is simply never-ending love energy filling up every spot it can. It is ownership not ultimately "about" owning or possession but about loving with no boundaries. It is not about pulling things in and holding onto them, as much as beautiful energy moving out from inside us, to the world. Theoretically, at some point in the future, no one will own anything -- so everyone will own everything. It sounds chaotic, but when genuine love is the catalyst, it won't be.

Supported

Today's post piggybacks on Wednesday's, in a way I couldn't have envisioned that day, or Monday, when I made a passing reference to the possibility that I have no "tribe".

Over the last few weeks, to the extent to which I "pray" to the Goddess, it has been one prayer: Please, let me find my tribe. Those people who are on a spiritual, intellectual, creative and visionary wavelength with me. People who I can plug into, and the electricity flows. People who understand my unique mix of interests, and welcome me. Wherever they are. Please, please. In these last few weeks as rebirth was clearly happening, and a little more authentic energy was flowing, it has been clear that writing this blog and getting out for errands (or even potentially a volunteer or paid job) will never be enough. And it's also become clear that most of my dearest friends aren't necessarily part of my tribe. That doesn't lessen the love I feel for them, but it does mean that we may not speak the same specific language, and I need to speak the same language as someone!

Forgive me for speaking in generalities for the moment, but I have just made arrangements to listen to a few lectures this weekend and next that really excite me, and are sponsored by people who have been on my radar screen for a few years. Unfortunately, between COVID, not having my own computer at times, and several other factors, I never really connected with them. But on Tuesday I followed a search thread rather quickly and rediscovered them. I don't know for sure if this is my tribe, but there is at least the possibility, which feels wonderful. No matter how much of a hermit or contemplative you become, you need a community. In fact, it may be all the more important when you are a hermit or contemplative!

There is no question in my mind that this leading is the energy of the Goddess propelling me in a direction where I can more effectively use the totality of my gifts. It is support. A building block of my expanded self. Even if only one new door opens from several hours of lectures, it will be a step forward, and it came because I asked, and finally loved myself enough to care whether I find my tribe and fulfill my potential.

Goddess Words 12: Support

I am happy to report that since I wrote on Monday, I have discovered that the deadline I thought was in place for leaving my current residence is much more flexible than I thought. At least for the moment, I can focus on being where I am in the present, rather than how to move forward from here. Thank the Goddess! That doesn't mean that my life is any less about transition, just that a tiny edge of the fear has been shaved off for now.  I have sometimes thought I was fearless, but that isn't completely true, especially when I leap across chasms (!) And COVID-time brought some deep fears to the surface.

That brings me to a good word to look at today: Support. Again, both a verb and a noun. And, again, a word that's impossible to fully address in one short essay.

Why might I have included this in my list of Goddess words, words which I associate with the powers and energy of the divine feminine? Clearly, even a decade or so ago, I had begun to associate Goddess energy with being "supported" by the Universe. I now see safety nets as the Goddess, and, in fact, when I let go and let Her figure things out, life purrs. It's when I get caught up in knots trying to operate within the male paradigm -- to make lists, try to find solutions, try to find the money, create artificial deadlines, to prove to others that I am worthy, etc. -- that is when the safety net completely disappears and I crash or become despairing. 

It's kind of hard, in our culture, to think of "support" without thinking of money. We are constantly being asked to support the causes we believe in, by donating money. Within the context of the old paradigm, this makes sense, but I have lost friends and family in part because of their fear of my relationship with money, and of the possibility that they will be "stuck" supporting me. It is so painful. Yet my experience has been that the Goddess doesn't, primarily, use money as much as she uses relationships, love, connection and unity as supportive foundations. (For someone like me, money only appears in situations where there is love; doing jobs I don't like or buying a lottery ticket has never worked.) Decades from now, love, kindness and goodwill will be our only currency; maybe I was a little ahead of the game, but I'm happy to have at least tried to live in integrity to this vision. 

Yup, most of us cannot see the Goddess's supportive network with human eyes, looking at a human bank account. We cannot always access it by traditional means, like an ATM. But it is there for us if we can completely let go of our old assumptions. If all our belongings are swept out to sea, and if we are still alive and have the capacity to love, She will provide the one essential next step. She will provide more open-ended, warm, loving support than we can find in almost any current institution, but the form may not be what we expect. One small opportunity here, one small coincidence there, one unexpected synchronicity or discussion with a stranger...For those of us beginning to find a home in Her, pathways open up, old blockages loosen up, dead lines disappear. Throw in a little gratitude, and the process accelerates. We may even find ourselves being Her vehicle for supporting others, easily, lovingly, fearlessly. We start being part of Her support network, and often without once pulling out a checkbook.

Monday's Child

I am a Monday's child. That is the day of the week I was born on in 1956. According to the old nursery rhyme, I am "fair of face", which is interesting since (as mentioned recently) I never thought I was beautiful. I finally do, now. This Monday has dawned cold (below freezing) and extremely windy. I feel the need to check in, even though I have no idea what to say.

This was one of those weekends when I was super conscious not only of the onset of winter, but also of not being with my tribe (if I have one...) or in my preferred country, where life interests me so much more. In an effort to do something different, I decided to go to a church harvest fair in a relatively unfamiliar part of town. I couldn't think of any friends who might be interested in this, so I took the bus. The event was in a stuffy church basement, and the people running it had it pared down to the bare bones, perhaps because of lingering COVID concerns. The items on offer were: beef pasties, apple pies, doughnuts, preserves, cookies, and a select few knitted and sewn goods for winter. I bought a pasty, a small jar of jam, some cookies, and a dishrag. Then (it being Saturday), it was an uncomfortably chilly half hour wait for the next bus, but I'm still not doing a whole lot of random sitting around indoors with other people even for the sake of warmth.

A cold Saturday morning in October made clear one thing -- this looks like it will be a hard winter on Duluth's streets, and on the bus lines  There are already so many people "sleeping rough" as they say in England, and I know every day of my life that I am on the verge of being one of them. I'm finally at the point where I believe that this is not about anything that any of us have done "wrong", it is about a system that can't help but create massive inequality and need, and push aside people who are different in any way. I am grateful for a roof over my head this minute. I'm not as compassionate as I should be, I think out of my own fear. I don't think of myself as fearful, but when I see a woman carting all her belongings in a baby carriage, or a man lugging an impossibly heavy backpack, I shiver. Literally. 

On Sunday, I made a so-so stew. Next time, I am not going to add tomato paste or tomato sauce, as it turns the gravy too orange! I listened to a Q and A session with one of my favorite authors, but wished the questioner had also been female. And I watched three "Masterpiece" mysteries (so much for having set this form of entertainment "violence" totally aside! But I wanted to see if any of these new series were worth watching, and the third of the three looked most promising, in part because the woman detective is so engaging.)

So it was a weekend, not so much of distracting myself, but of treading water. There has to be a way for me to expand, beyond this blog, my expression of my gifts, thoughts, and passion for England/English church music and the Goddess, but, even reborn, I can't yet hear a specific call. For today, this Monday's child is just thankful to be alive, warm, and fed.

The Power of Choice

This is going to be very short.

What would our world be like if, many thousands of years ago, humanity had chosen to follow a more unified, love-based, Goddess-centered, earth-based spirituality? I cannot know for sure, but I suspect that most of the ills plaguing us right now would either not exist at all, or barely exist. Would we be as technologically advanced? Probably not. We would have moved ahead much more slowly and thoughtfully, with careful, loving attention to the needs of our neighbors and our earth home.

There is little point in too much "what-iffing". Humanity developed as it did, and we are where we are. But it is time for taking more personal responsibility for all our choices, and trying not to blame other people, the government, companies, or other institutions. I chose to buy this item made of plastic or wrapped in plastic, I chose anger at someone who thinks differently than I do, I chose to benefit from our economic construct (or not!), I chose a retirement portfolio that may include companies that do things I don't believe in...etc. We may feel like we have very little power in the face of all that is happening, but we have more power of choice than we think we do. We can individually choose different options throughout the day, as hard or inconvenient as that might be. 

The Face in the Mirror

As a follow-up to my last post, I found a place to give away my father's tie clip miscellany. I rather hope that the items will make their way to a young man attending his high school prom, or getting married, or acting as best man. Anything is better than another thirty years in a small box.

The process of going through my few bags and boxes of possessions continues to be emotional. I'm not sure, but I wonder if it has to do with the fact that most of what I am dealing with is paper -- letters, years worth of journals, notebooks full of handwritten essays (from before this blog), memorabilia of trips to England, research about Herbert Howells, even family photos (see below). It's been decades since I have "owned" furniture, small appliances, etc., and those are less likely to have a major emotional charge. Paper can be a more bittersweet mirror about your life, your choices, your friends and family, the phases you have gone through. I am throwing a little bit of it out, but I had already pretty much reached the plateau of "the next stop on this train is tossing everything but a roller bag-full", which I hope is not where I'm headed unless it is for a joyful, positive reason. As hard as it is, I'm awfully fortunate. The folks in Florida had these sorting choices taken out of their hands. Many of them may feel like they literally don't know who they are without the things they used to carry. Some of them no longer even have a roller bag-full of precious belongings. It's all part of our communal leap upwards, spiritually, but that doesn't make it any less painful.

This is going to seem like a complete non-sequitur, but bear with me. I have tended not to look at myself in the mirror very often. I mean, really looked. For one thing, I haven't felt I was particularly attractive. I've almost never worn make-up, so I didn't pay that kind of daily attention to my face. Having gained weight about 20 years ago that I never lost again, I felt I didn't really want to focus on this "me" that I didn't fully recognize. My first few video conferences online were unnerving, because I wasn't satisfied at all with how I looked, and there I was for everyone to see.

But in the last year, my hair has grown long, as I think I have mentioned. It is now well down my back. And oddly enough, it has become a deep chestnut-red color, with some white mixed in. My hair, at least, is beautiful...and that has been the catalyst to looking with a little more self-acceptance at my face in the mirror. Except...

One morning, I realized with near horror that the face looking out at me is my father's! I am the spitting image of him; if in his sixties, he had worn a wig with long brownish-red hair, he would have been the twin of me, now. In the context of what I have finally learned and accepted about him as a person, it was very, very hard. If I look so much like him, am I more like him than I think?

Then, in going through my papers, I found a small stash of photos that I had forgotten about. Amongst them is a family photograph from the summer of 1961, which is unnerving in its beauty. The five of us look happy, relaxed, and "normal" -- whatever that means! Six-year-old "me" is looking directly at the photographer. I started wearing glasses later that year, so it's amazing to see how clear and almost piercing my eyes are. Another, more formal, studio photograph must date from 1931 or 32, and it shows my dad in the center, with his younger brother to his right and his older brother is to his left. Dad (who would have been about six at the time) is looking directly at the photographer, and he looks exactly like me in 1961. Exactly. I guess you can choose to give away or lighten the load of other fatherly gifts, the old cufflinks and tie clips, maybe even institutions and expectations, but you can't escape your genes! (He, in turn, looked exactly like his Scottish grandmother, which means I do too.) As unnerving as this has been, there is a little bit of healing in it. Maybe, just maybe, I took the same genes and the same physical traits and managed (mostly!) to represent very different qualities and values. Yesterday, just for a moment, I actually thought I looked beautiful in the mirror...for about one second, but still, that's a step forward.

There are so many barriers to loving oneself, and to loving a world that seems bent on chaos and destruction. I guess one 60-something woman continuing to make baby steps towards inner healing doesn't look like much, but it feels really big today.

Goddess Words 11: Wonder

There are a variety of definitions for the word "wonder" in both its noun and verb form, and I'm sure we have all used it both ways. When I originally wrote this list of Goddess words, I probably had the noun in mind, but today I think both are useful. Wonder is closely related to "Awe", which I wrote about six weeks ago, but it is usually seen as a slightly warmer or less off-putting emotion.

Having said that, I look with wonder at the photographs of southwest Florida. Wonder and awe. The truth is that Nature is completely awe-some, and worthy of respectful wonder. I feel the heartbreak of the many thousands of people who have lost everything, perhaps even family or friends, and more than many people I can empathize with that feeling, "I have nothing. What on earth do I do now?" And I respect the courage of those who declare that they will start over from scratch, and rebuild. But it's that rebuilding that stops me short...these storms are largely Nature's effort to restore balance to a system we have set off-kilter. Rebuilding will be a catalyst for more powerful storms, just as more air-conditioning units are a catalyst to higher temperatures. What we humans are doing to "fix" the messes we have created is only making the situation worse.

The artist in me finds a visual beauty in the aerial photos of the destruction. The subtle patterns of the "after" pictures have a different appeal than the "before" ones. But more than anything, what is so compelling is the evidence of Nature's power. She is simply more powerful than any of our human efforts or creations, and until we "get" that as a society and start to have the humility to include Her in our planning, no amount of rebuilding will have permanency.

As a verb, the word "wonder" may be really helpful right now. Rather than panic, simply wonder. I wonder what Mother Nature would want us to do right now? I wonder what steps I can take to live even more lightly on the earth? I wonder how the next few decades will unfold? I wonder if I can be more loving, even in the midst of tragedy? I wonder if I can do more to embrace of Goddess values and the power of Mother Nature? 

Dad's Detritus

Back in 2018, after my father died, I received my "inheritance" -- around $725. Then a few months later, my brother sent me a small jewelry box of miscellaneous tie clips, tuxedo studs, and cufflinks, thinking I might want them as a memento. I didn't, particularly. However, I've held onto the box and its contents, with what I suppose you could call an ironic motive. I was pretty sure they weren't valuable, but if all heck broke loose, perhaps I could trade them for a loaf of bread. 

When I came across the box a few days ago, I opened it again and looked carefully at the contents. The only significant item appeared to be a tiny gold ring, which I can see from the interior inscription was my great-grandmother's wedding ring from 1888. It barely fits on my pinkie, and even it has, I am sure, little real value, but as it is a token of one of my female forebears, I put it in my own little box of special things. On Saturday, I took the remaining nine items to a local jeweler, to see if any of it has value. The short answer is no. Worthless. And, of course, in this day and age, away from major metropolitan centers, I don't think many men wear cufflinks, tuxedo studs and tie clips, although they are for sale online.

So I walked away, still in possession of this gosh darned box of stuff (from Schenectady's best jeweler back in the day), now wanting to get rid of it but not quite prepared to toss it in the trash. I'll let you know what I eventually do. However, I couldn't resist the metaphoric meaning of this story. What is in the box of "stuff" that our fathers pass on to us, both individually and collectively? Does it look shiny and valuable and turn out to be valuable, or is it the leavings, the detritus of a life or of a bigger paradigm? It's worth going through the box carefully. There can be beauty and value in amongst the worthless things, things that should be kept. But the entire collection may simply be too heavy, psychologically or physically, to keep carrying.

One footnote about my great-grandmother. She and her husband (and later, their children and grandchildren) were on the outer rings of New York City high society. I am not sure when it happened, but probably in the nineteen-teens or twenties, they separated or divorced, which was uncommon in that era. Although I have no evidence of why it happened, my gut tells me that Jean was more willing to face an uncertain future alone than with her husband. She was evidently a formidable woman; perhaps her husband was not. In any event, the little ring speaks more to me of her eventual independence than the limitations of her married state, and I hope I can continue to keep it safe.

Keep on Keeping on

And so I keep on keeping on, as a friend of mine always says. Thankful not to be in Florida.  And holding in the light the thousands upon thousands of Floridians who have an extremely hard road ahead the next few weeks. But as usual, I feel even more sadness for Nature, whose oceans have gained untold quantities of oil, toxic chemicals, building supplies, old cars, toys, boats, and, as ever, plastics. We surely must soon go over some kind of tipping point, where all of us start to think about our toll on the environment before we buy or build or expand...

In preparation for some changes or a move that will probably happen in the next few months, I'm going through that process yet again of organizing my things/paring down/consolidating. It's hard to imagine anyone in the world who has done this as often as I have (although I'm sure I'm not completely alone...) And it gets harder as I get older, when even carrying grocery bags is exhausting. I used to not want to own more than I could fit in my car; now I don't have a car, and cannot carry much at all. At the same time, I am not ready to get rid of those heavy, heavy, heavy books and journals, which are literally a mirror of me. There's such a fine line between downsizing and throwing yourself away, and at times I have come too close to the latter. I still have some boxes back east, and there is something of "me" in them, so I cannot let go of them yet. Being more aware of who I am and having a greater sense of my validity than ever, I'm finding this consolidation process harder, more emotional. I want to own as little as possible and still "own" myself. And I need to "own" that I would dearly love a simple, beautiful permanent home in the place of my choosing, even though the low income of a wandering mystic has always made that seem like an impossible dream. I keep reminding myself that right now, even some of the most successful people are losing homes for a variety of environmental and other reasons. We are all on an edge.

During the height of the pandemic, I thought I had lost a number of earrings. I held onto their partners in a little plastic bag in case they showed up, and three of them did! Going through things with a fine tooth comb once in a while has its benefits!

Fall has come on suddenly, although strangely without quite the normal colors that you usually see in this part of the world. We've had a number of cold nights, but the trees remain generally green. Hmmm...

The rebirth of this moment is full of paradox. I'm energized and a little bored, but exhausted. I'm carrying America and England, and the past and the future, and wanting to lead but have no idea who wants my presence, much less my leadership. My blog is like breathing, absolutely necessary, and as I near 700 posts, I know that some of my richest gifts to the world are in here. Yet some days, I have no readers at all! Some days, I wonder why I keep on keeping on, but so far, I do!

Painful prefixes

A little over a year ago, I wrote this post, but it has stayed in draft form ever since. I am not quite sure why, except that perhaps current events eclipsed the topic, or I wasn't ready to publish it for some other reason. However, it feels like the right time this morning, so, with a little editing, here we go...

Since I pretty frequently allude to the time of change we are entering, I guess I need to start exploring what things may look like, say, thirty, fifty, or one hundred years from now. Or, in this case, what they may sound like.

I feel quite certain that word prefixes that can mean or imply conflict, pushback, or pain will no longer be a major part of our vocabulary. Counter-, contra-, a-, anti-, dis-, dys-, non-, and a host of others...even suffixes like -algia (nostalgia).

Is this because some Orwellian, Big Brother regime will take over, and erase words in order to mess up people's brains? Create Ministries of Love which kill or torture people? No.

I think it will be because the human heart will literally (and simply) reach the point where it can no longer tolerate hatred, conflict or pain. Most of us will just throw up our hands and say, "I can't do this any more. I cannot focus on this any more." We won't want to fight anything or protect ourselves from anything. We will outgrow duality, in part because it has led to dire environmental crises that have completely changed our lives and perspectives. This will be change at the grassroots level, change from within, as most of us start to understand how destructive it has been to be in constant conflict. This transformation will spread to our language. Certain words will simply be used more infrequently. Their corresponding actions and concepts won't appeal anymore because we won't wish to stoke the fires of division and pain. Words and actions will increasingly exude/embody only harmony.

It's interesting to spend a day aware of words implying conflict...maybe circling them in the newspaper (if you still get a hard copy!) or writing a list of the ones you see or hear in the course of your day. Some examples: antiestablishment, atonal, disinfectant, counterattack...When you read them, how do you feel? Are they  uplifting? Do you feel a warm glow? Or does that prefix immediately put you on edge?  If you feel nothing, don't be surprised. We are all a bit numb at the moment. Just open the door to finding words (and actions) with no conflict or pain frame of reference, and see what comes in.